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Nervous -- truly nervous, I was, and am, but I am not mad. Why do you say that I am mad?
I will tell you what happened that night, and then you will see that I am not mad. Would a madman be able to tell the tale so calmly? So thoughtfully? So eruditely?
The disease had not dulled my senses at all. It had actually made them more acute, enabled me to fixate on a matter with such precision that, should it be known, I’d have been the envy of many a man without this affliction.
It was opening night, you see. Everything was set. Bertrand had come up with a delightful menu of delicacies that one could only marvel at. He was brilliant. Brilliant, I tell you!
I had no problems with him. None whatsoever. We funded the restaurant together. We were buddies. Pals. The best of friends.
Yet...
If there was one fault with the man, it was in his hands. His left hand, you see, was smaller than his right hand by the merest of millimeters, yet I could detect the defect and it vexed me.
Ordinarily this would not have been a problem. On anyone else, I daresay it would not have been a problem.
But on Bertrand...
The problem grew in intensity with each interaction.
You see, he spoke with his hands. Large, grandiose gestures would accompany his robust speech, and I could not help but be drawn to his left hand every time he spoke. It was grotesque. Hideous. A defect that should not mar such an otherwise perfect man.
I made up my mind, during one of Bertrand’s more impressive ramblings about the properties of borscht and how well it paired with Pinot Noir, to rid my dear friend of his unsightly hand.
I must admit that, at the time, I hadn’t thought about the subsequent unevenness this would create in my friend, and just how ill-favored that would be. The only thought I’d had was to be rid of the hand. You cannot fault me for that. No one can fault me for that.
Symmetry, you see, is the apex of beauty, and I wanted everyone to see how beautiful Bertrand was -- in spirit and in body, but for that damnable hand.
It was toward that aim only that I acted.
I did not act rashly, though some might think I did.
I was not given to madness, despite the disease that had overtaken my mind.
It was an act of love, an act of the purest of friendship which led me to -- after Bertrand had waxed on for some time about the appetizers he’d be serving that night -- lop off his repulsive left hand with the meat cleaver he’d used to cleave the shoulder from the pig for his signature borscht dish.
And then that’s when the dilemma struck me. Without the left hand, Bertrand’s right hand looked just as grotesque.
You cannot fault me for what I did next. Anyone who has ever loved a friend, as I have, would not fault me or think me mad.
You might wonder how I was able to subdue such a large man. It was not difficult. He was at a loss for words and could only stare at me like I’d gone mad (I am not mad, I was not mad!), and then stare down at his severed hand.
It was all too easy, though, I learned that ridding him of his right hand did not fix the issue. For it was then that I noticed his ears were not of a similar nature to each other, and that his right foot was smaller than his left, his eyes were unevenly placed, and then there was the matter of his head -- it was much too small for his body.
I suppose that my only mistake lay in what I did next, but the restaurant was about to open, and there was Bertrand and all his mismatched parts strewn all about the floor. The waitstaff and the sous-chef would arrive within the hour. I did what anyone in my place would have done. Afterall, there was no dish Bertrand loved more than a good borscht, and in my panicked (not mad) state, I paid homage to my poor deceased friend in the most poetic, just way that I could. I buried him not underneath a pile of uncaring dirt, but used his final dish as his resting place.
I need not tell you more. You know the rest of the story, or you would not be here, listening to me explain the events as calmly, as coolly, as collectedly as I have.